


Uneternal Sleep

by saint sentiment (cmm6016)



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: F/M, Silent Hill 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmm6016/pseuds/saint%20sentiment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SH2, post Rebirth Ending. “The Old Gods haven’t left this place. And they still grant power to those who venerate them. Power to defy even death.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Old Gods

The rowboat comes to a stop at the edge of the dock. James releases his grip on the paddles, rotating his sore shoulder muscles and cracking his back a little. He can rest easy now. The monsters have all disappeared, and the veil has been lifted at last. There is only one thing left in the entire world for him to do. It consumes him completely.

He turns to his wife, lying on the floor of the boat. She is so serene. The face of death seen in a Wake.

Unfortunately, after spending hours in an unventilated trunk and now being suddenly exposed to the air, Mary’s skin has begun to discolor and look even more sickly and blotchy than when she was alive. She has only been dead for less than two days, and already she’s starting to smell. Her extremities are bluish grey as if she had been afflicted with plague.

Even with Mary in this state, he’s sure that he doesn’t look much better. After running around a dank prison, coming to at the bottom of dark holes, knee-deep in piles of trash, and sloshing around in the impossibly rancid, murky waters of the catacombs, there probably isn’t much difference between them. They are both ghastly corpses now.

But soon none of that will matter. She’ll be new like an infant from the womb, and he a smiling man.

He digs under Mary’s limp body and lifts her to his chest, cautiously setting foot on the dock. He takes his time, hearing the old wooden boards creak under his feet, and steps onto the mushy sand. The waters lap against the shore like absently licking tongues, washing pebbles into the waves. The trees sway in solemnity. He hears the faint drone of cicadas above his head, pleased to hear that there is still life here.

He strides up the path. The church begins to peek out from the trees as they become sparser and farther apart.

His eerie elation only doubles.

Mary’s weight means nothing to him at this point. Only now does he realize that he’s carried far heavier things than her.

At some points along the way it seems she might wake up and ask him where they’re going.  Her lips open slightly every time her head falls back from being jostled up the path.

The trees shade his terrible hope, throwing whipping shadows that lash at his face.

The paint on the old white church is starting to peel, curling back like chipped, withered centipedes. With a powerful kick, the doors creak open and the dust puffs into his face like he’s dropped a bag of flour. He turns his head aside to sneeze, and then he enters.

The pews are lined with tarnished gold and the walkway is inlaid with red carpeting. There are more pews in this church than would otherwise be normal. In addition, there are three tiers of galleries above them. This would probably hold an audience of over 1000 easy. Why, though?

In the place of a podium is a marble altar that comes up to his waist. He lays Mary carefully upon it. Names swim in his head.

_The Church of the Rebirth._

_436 People at a Recital._

His eyes trail all over, from the arched columns to the stained glass windows to the candelabra at either side of the altar. He takes out his little notepad and flips to the notes he took in one of the prison cells.

_On Sacrifice and the Art of Demon Summoning… Tome of the Seer… The Resurrection of the Deceased…_

He’d read that long ago, these rituals had been carried out in front of an audience—most likely the loved ones of the deceased and a great deal of fierce believers. Maybe even some skeptics. But the old texts are so archaic and vague there’s no way to know for sure.

He fishes in his pocket for everything he’s procured along the way: all the life-saving notes and illegible scribbles penned by him and long-dead lunatics alike. Tucked away safely in his inner pocket is the White Chrism, which looks little more like a vial of cloudy milk, and sets it down near Mary’s leg. He takes out the two tomes he picked up from the library at Lakeview. He grasps the spiraled stem of the Obsidian Goblet. His fingers caress the rim of the cup, faintly wondering how many lips had touched it before his. He sets it down and picks up _The Crimson Ceremony_.

_“..Heed my words and speaketh them to all, that they shall ever be obeyed even under the light of the proud and merciless sun._

_I shall bring down bitter vengeance upon thee and thou shalt suffer my eternal wrath._

_The beauty of the withering flower and the last struggles of the dying man, they are my blessings._

_Thou shalt call upon me and all that is me in the place that is silent._

_Oh, proud fragrance of life which flies toward the heart._

_Oh cup which brims with the whitest of wine, it is in thee that all begins.”_

He takes the vial of White Chrism and pours it into the Obsidian Goblet. He then lifts it to his lips and drinks. It’s immediately bitter and makes his tongue shirk back from the taste. His nostrils are overcome with the pungency and he starts to cough. He sets down the Goblet and tries to breathe.

He takes Angela’s knife, which he’d cleaned prior to the beginning of the recitation, opens the skin of his palm with a delicious slit, and brings it to Mary’s unresponsive mouth. Her lips are laced with his blood, and now her mouth is red and cavernous. _The blood is the life._

In a flash, the blood begins to cloud. It morphs into a dark blue, then a violent, sudden black. It converges and snakes around her face like lost leeches and finally finds her mouth again, slipping inside.

He feels lightheaded.

A drumming pressure fissures through his temples. Ogre-like praying bursts from somewhere below his feet and its ascension absorbs all other sound. The walls begin to bleed, opening up like a festering wound. His cranium is splitting. Somewhere in the cacophony, he can hear her calling him.

_“James…”_

The walls, the pews, the altar, and everything else start peeling off like skin from burning apples. It all flies up in a flurry of black and bright orange ash. His skin starts feeling tighter. His brain wants to squeeze into one side of his skull for fear of being halved, or left behind entirely. He doesn’t know anything but that the darkness is coming.

_“James…”_

A long row of rusted metal catwalks descend through his vision like climbing down a ladder. An industrial fan whirrs loudly and passes him by, its blades slicing into his hearing.

_“James…”_

His temperature drops to an unknowable cold at the wail of the siren. The same siren that had called Red Pyramid back to a place dark and constantly afraid. A place no one could ever dream up.

_“James…”_

He can hear a valve turning.

“James.” Her arm falls over the ledge and reaches out to him. His head swims with a yearning he can’t satisfy. Somewhere in the stuffy muddle of this dream, or whatever else it may be, is happiness. A restless, uneasy, dreaming joy.

They’re here. Silent Heaven.

 

 

_She is everything to me_

_The unrequited dream_

_The song that no one sings_

_The unattainable_

_She’s a myth that I have to believe in_

_All I need to make it real is one more reason…_


	2. Lady Lazarus

Mary awakens on the altar. A great force of breath sears through her lungs, throwing her eyes open and sending her limbs into convulsions. Her back arches. For the first few minutes, she’s not capable of taking in air of her own accord; something else is forcing her to take in great, deep drags, trying to recover from the sheer terror of being awake after what feels like a millennium of sleep. Her breathing gradually slows to a normal intake, and her heart’s terrible throbbing begins to abate.

Beams of sunlight peer in from poky holes in the roof, throwing stripes on her face and clothing. All around there is a damp, musky smell.

The versicolored stain glass windows are entrancing. She can make out the images of unknown saints in various forms of prayer and obeisance. The arched ceiling wavers in her unsteady vision and ready for any reason to collapse. She has a horrible, copper taste in her tongue, like someone has punched her teeth out and a pool of blood has been sitting in the pouch of her cheek. With a stiff, painful effort, she manages to turn herself on her side. Her entire body is struggling with a vast numbness. She feels like she hasn’t used any of her limbs in years. Her voice can only utter one word. A helpless, unanswered name.

“James…” she wheezes. Her voice echoes into the hollow. “James…”

For what feels like hours, she can’t move off the marble slab. She has to take her time and slowly will her body to cooperate with her. She has to take it one anguishing step at a time. She focuses on letting her upper body loosen so she can sit upright, and then work on waking up her legs, but that seems an eternity away. Her body wracks with sharp aches, now forced to reverse the process of rigor mortis.

“Mary?” his voice is raspy, but more articulate than hers. “Are you awake?”

She inches herself closer to the edge, looking down.

There on the floor lies James, pallid and almost bloodless. His hair is a stark, frightening gray. His hands are clenching his stomach. He spits out a cry of happiness. Tears rim his eyes. “Mary… You… You're…”

“James.” Her arm falls over the ledge and reaches out to him, but he’s too low for her touch. They’re both too weak to even make contact with the tips of her fingers. Though their reunion is a little stilted, it’s more than she or James ever hoped for, and it’s really real. Somewhere in the stuffy muddle of her dreams is happiness, and this is what she drifts from reality clinging to.

 

 

It’s such an alien experience, looking at oneself for seemingly the first time. She can barely believe it’s these eyes staring back at her, ones that are no longer blood shot or strained. They’re just as good as anyone else's. Her newly washed hair lays flat against her head, stuck around her face like algae, all of it restored. No bald patches, no clumps of hair in the sink. Her skin is smooth and healthy, freed from the leprous color that once stained her skin. She’s as healthy as she was 3 years ago, far before the diagnosis.

She only wishes she could say the same for James.

He doesn’t want any medicine, any assistance at all. He only wants for her to wash off the grime of Silent Hill and sit by his bedside, letting him bask in her, a living example of what the world believes to be impossible. Lady Lazarus. That’s what James says the press would coin her.

Lady Lazarus…

_The Resurrection of the Deceased_ , that odd book James has by his bedside, calls her simply ‘the reborn’.

 

 

One of the tenants seems to think she’s an interesting specimen. Whenever she passes by, groceries in hand, keys dangling from her hands, he’s there. He offers help, but she always refuses.

_No, no, don’t worry about me. I got it._

There’s no conceivable reason for him to be so interested in her above all the other neighbors. He tries to give Laura lollipops, but Mary has since commanded that she isn’t to acknowledge that man in any form. Now, Laura pretends he’s invisible.

This doesn’t wound him. Not at all. Perhaps that’s what bothers her the most. There’s never any indication of wounded pride, nor has he taken the hint yet. They pass by that man every day after she picks up Laura from school. He just smiles and waves, an eerie neighbor immune to discourtesy. Every day strengthens her discomfort. Pretending he’s little more than air isn’t solving much. She wants a reason to call the cops on him, but he’s given her no such reason. He’s merely a bother.

She can’t help but wonder: what exactly does he want? Is it just his disposition to be unsettling or does he have something to tell her?

His eyes, like a ghost, follow her as they always do. She closes the door behind her and Laura, leaving his smile in the hallway.

 

 

James sobs in his room as Mary prepares his breakfast.

The coffee brews like a dark chemical in a flask as she sifts the eggs from the pan and onto the plate. The grease, a light brown, gathers in dewy tears, sizzling around his bacon. On the countertop is a medium breakfast tray, where his plate and glass of milk lies. She places three slices of bacon sit beside his salted and peppered eggs.

The toast pops up, stiff and giving off heat. She spreads the butter and cuts them into hypotenuse pairs. She takes the jelly from the fridge and puts in two more slices of toast. James tends to have a varying degree of taste these days, almost as if he wants to try everything he’s already eaten before it’s too late.

But she can’t think about that. Of course he’s going to be alright. He’s just a little weak from the experience, is all. Silent Hill has taken a lot out of them both.

Mary saunters in with the breakfast tray. She hopes his stomach is a little stronger today. He won’t improve much if he doesn’t get his nutrients. She sets it down on the bedside bureau to attend to him. James’ hair is tousled from sweat, fueled by nightmares and a persistent paranoia that every time Mary goes out of the room, she won’t come back.

Mary plucks a tissue from the box of Kleenex, dabbing under his eyes and wiping his wet nose, which he hasn’t much strength to keep after. As it is he has trouble chewing and swallowing. Soon, she guesses, she’ll have to look into getting a feeding tube for him if he continues at this rate, losing more strength each day instead of improving.

She positions him upright and slides the breakfast table out from under the bed, unfolding it and placing it over his lap. She sets the tray there and offers a weak smile, stepping back and sitting down in the chair to monitor his eating.

He groans intermittently, and picks at his food. Mary sighs; she had expected that. If he won’t eat, it won’t go to waste. Laura likes dippy eggs.

At the thought of Laura, she remembers the man and falls into thought. She wants to ask James so many things, but she doesn’t know where to begin. Much less if she should even ask them in the first place. She questions the wisdom of even telling him about the man that lives down the hall. That he’s been asking questions. Invasive ones. Like “How long have you been staying here?” and “You said you were married. How come I’ve never seen the lucky guy?”

Yesterday he introduced himself as Art Miller. Not that she asked his name, but it seemed important to him that she know it. Point in fact he wouldn’t allow her to leave until she revealed some things about herself, in which point he matched some of her experience in an uncomfortable way.

_“You vacationed in Silent Hill? Oh, I know that place. I used to live there. Took my niece to the amusement park, went rowing in Toluca Lake every spring. I even went to church there,”_ he laughed.

God, that guy gives her the creeps.

James grows fatigued after his breakfast. Mary clears away the tray and asks him if he wants anything else. He shakes his head and lolls off to the side, about to fall asleep again. Mary’s brows lower and she deliberates for a moment on just what she should do. At length she decides to reposition him so he’s reclining on his back again. She also fluffs his pillow and brushes the hair from his face. The circles under his eyes are darkening. He gets more sleep than a bear, yet he never wakes without complaining of aches and pains.

Mary leaves the room as quietly as she can. She makes a point to leave the door open a crack. From past experience, the sound of the door closing will have him calling out for her almost immediately.

In the living room, Laura’s small body is encircled by sprinkles of crayons and several coloring books. Her teddy bear, a small one that she discovered with needles in its head, sits near her hip as she scrawls in white and red.

“Are you hungry at all, sweetie?” Mary bends to her level and runs her fingers lightly through Laura’s wispy blond fringe. “James didn’t eat all of his breakfast. Or, if you don’t want any eggs, I could fix you some cereal before we get going.”

Laura stops coloring and ponders this question for a moment. She turns to Mary and asks, “Is James going to die?”

Mary feels her chest tighten. She swallows, and searches for the most considerate and caring response, but finds it’s scattered somewhere in an inaccessible area of her mind. “I don’t… No. He’s going to be fine,” Mary decides. “Do you want me to put Hi-C in your lunch bag or Juicy Juice?”

She shrugs, indifferent. She cleans up her crayons and unzips her book bag, filing her homework to make room for the coloring books in the back. Laura may only be 8 years old, but she certainly isn’t a fool. Mary can really use some good self-deception right about now, but for some reason, she feels like she’s been through this before. These feelings aren’t new.

Which can only mean that, deep down inside her, she must know how this is going to end.

Laura stops what she’s doing and looks at Mary again. “But if he dies… you’re never going to have that baby you always wanted.”

Mary’s takes a seat on the couch and pats her lap. Laura sits on her while Mary rubs her arm reassuringly. “It’s alright, Laura. I don’t need another one. You’re already my baby,” she says, challenging Laura’s hanging head with a smile, because she has to. However much it hurts, Laura needs this smile from her. “Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

Laura’s lips seem to tug in a more cheerful direction, but in the end she doesn’t give in to the lighter expression she’d been aiming for. Meekly, she asks, “Do you promise?”

Mary casts her eyes to the door of James’ room. All the uncertainty of the future seems to stare back from that hallway, and for a minute it’s too overwhelming to ponder on. But then she remembers a very important thing. James is man of his word. He promised he’d take Mary to Silent Hill again one day, and for all intents and purposes, he did.

If one man can transcend even death for a promise, then what excuse does she have? All the greater burden to bear, because through James’ sacrifice, Laura and Mary were given second chances. And even though the price he’s paying doesn’t welcome much optimism, that’s really all the reason she needs.

She turns back to Laura, squeezing her small palm.

“I promise, sweetie.”


	3. Love Psalm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to end things here because my imagination went kaput on me in this story. I don't like this chapter simply because it isn't my best, but the original ending I had in mind wouldn't work. I tried to tie things up as best as I could. It's jumpy, like the second chapter was, but I hope it's not too bad. I want to write a better, unrelated coda to the Rebirth ending someday, though I don't know what I'd come up with. I plan to move on to bigger and better Silent Hill projects after this.

 Mary catches Art at the gas station and her heart nearly stops dead in her chest. She doesn’t think he’s going to give up so easily and it scares the shit out of her. Quickly, she retrieves the snacks James asked for and a pack of cigarettes he won through a pitiable display of moaning and weeping and gnashing of teeth, and gets the hell out of there. As she passes Art lifts his arm to wave but it drops as she walks out, not even giving him the dignity of eye contact.

At home, Mary walks to James’ room and sees him reclining upright, staring at nothing in particular. His eyes are half lidded and he looks more than exhausted. The shadows under his eyes have deepened. His hair is a greasy mess. His cheeks are hollowed out. It’s come to the point where, if he’s in pain, he’s certainly not complaining anymore. He might have reached that state of acceptance and inner peace, for which she is both grateful and devastated at the same time. As he wastes away he becomes more quiet and therefore less and less of a burden, but she wonders about everything that goes on in his head. Does he still dream? If he does, does he dream that he’s well again and Mary is in his arms and they’re happy? Or does he dream of nothing - a blissful void he can’t wait to join? The end of everything is hard, but there’s nothing quite like the end of a life. It supersedes all else and reminds one, unlike anything else, of the ignominy of the world and the shit and the piss that stains in these sheets and how none of it will ever be scrubbed away.

Is he being taken to someplace pure? Does he know every secret of the universe and has he reached enlightenment?

These are silly, if not completely stupid thoughts, but somehow excruciatingly relevant. She could ask him, but does she really want to hear the answers?

Mary wants to turn on the lamp, but he always complains about how it bothers his eyes so she’s conditioned herself not to do it anymore.

She approaches his bedside, asking if he’s alright. James stares ahead. He doesn’t seem to register it at first, but then after a moment or two he recognizes his wife’s voice and turns his head to give her due attention. “What?”

“I said are you alright?” Mary folds her hands together and prepares herself for anything: a cryptic comment, an unintelligible slur, or even an insult.

“Did you see that man today?” he asks instead, taking no heed of her own question. She may as well have never uttered it.

Mary steps back and her jaw slacks. She wraps her arms around herself and turns her head, unsure of what to say. What can she really tell him? That they’re on the edge of being discovered? That this man knows something’s up with the family that lives here, and she’s defenseless against it?

She doesn’t say anything. She can’t bear to.

James turns back to stare at the wall, as Mary had done when she was lying in a bed like this.

Yes, now she remembers. She had been dying. Not of the same illness - truth be told, it doesn’t look like James has what she had at all. He’s still  has his hair. His skin, though oily and pale, hasn’t completely turned to shit and started flaking off like it did to her, and despite his physical difficulties he’s way more mobile than she was in those agonizing three years he’d sat by _her_ bedside and reveled in his own helplessness.

It’s all a cruel joke, she thinks. Someone’s up there, laughing. Maybe.

 

 

 

Early in the morning, Mary is at her usual routine: making breakfast. The eggs pop, the toast steams. The minutes tick by, aware that she’s keeping an eye on them. Waiting for when James will wake and begin his morning cry, like a newborn in the crib that suddenly wonders where its mother is. Waiting, waiting… She cooks contentedly in blessed silence until James’ sobbing breaks out in the bedroom. On time, but still strange. She’s never heard him sound so much like an abandoned child, so despairing and so… pathetic. He might have pissed on himself again. In which case, she wouldn’t be surprised.

She enters the room, setting the tray on the bedside bureau.

“Are you in pain?” she asks.

“I’m scared,” he says.

“Of what?”

“Losing you.”

She squeezes his palm and rubs her thumb over the back of his hand. “We’re together now. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. As soon as you get better—”

“Mary,” James shakes his head. “You don’t understand,” he states, emphatically. Prophetically. Fatally.

She can’t find it in her to say anything. The words just won’t dislodge themselves from her throat.

_As soon as you get better_ _…_ she’d said.

She remembers now. It’s all so clear now.

That’s exactly what James told her three years ago.

 

 

 

Against Mary’s urges against it, James wants cigarettes again.

As she’s walking down the hallway, Art appears in front of her. She hadn’t realized that he was even in the hallway. All morning something’s been rolling around in her stomach, like the feeling of completion… but emptiness after the fact. She hadn’t been able to focus on anything else all morning, until this asshole showed up.

He raises his hands and lowers his head. “Please, there’s no need to be alarmed. Can I speak with you a moment?”

Her mouth sets into a hard line. She bunches her shoulders and brushes past him and he says, “I know about you and your husband. I know you’re not supposed to be alive.”

Mary stops dead in her tracks. Turns around.

Her fists shake, her mouth quivers. “You bastard. Why are you following me? Why won’t you leave me alone? Do you want to tear us apart?” She steps forward, her eyes rimming and her teeth clenched.

“No.” Art steps back, shakes his head in a display of resignation and shame. “You have to believe me. I’m trying to help you.”

Mary, tearful, starts off down the hall and clacks down the flight of stairs leading to the elevator. Art stands where he is.

 

 

 

Mary has been sitting around all day and she just can’t stand it anymore. She’s had enough with just sitting around doing nothing while James coughs, sneezes, and rolls around in general misery. She can’t take this anymore. If she doesn’t do something about this she’ll go insane. Resolute, she stands up and tells Laura she’ll be right back, and to keep on coloring. Laura sneaks a concerned glance at her and continues scribbling.

She heads down the hall. Part of her can’t believe she’s actually doing this, and the another part says that it’s necessary and she’s got to do this. If she doesn’t, it’ll never leave her alone. She needs to know. What does this man want? What does he have to say to her that’s so important? She just hopes that when this is finally over and done with, he’ll never bother her again. She goes over the plan in her head. Stop, talk to the man, get her answers. Then when James gets better—

No. Whatever happens, she’s going as far away from here as possible. Even if… James won’t be following her.

She stops at room 415. Art’s apartment. She knocks and steps back, her heart pounding in her chest. Will he answer? Is he even home? What does he know that she doesn’t?

Abruptly her thoughts are laid to rest when the chain slides back from behind the door and Art’s face greets her. His brows are furrowed in confusion and silent expectation. He wants to say something, but thinks it’s probably fit if Mary states her business first and foremost.

Her eyes are red rimmed. “How are you trying to help me?”

Art’s house has an austere layout. The hallway from the front door leads to the living room. He has a plasma screen LCD TV in the middle of the room, with a modern looking red couch facing it. To their left is the window, and a small bay area. The curtains are drawn, casting gloom on the apartment as a whole. To their right is the kitchen, partially cut off by a wall with a square window cut into it, where small vases rest in placed intervals. The kitchen is small, like the one in their apartment, with only a few cabinets and a small island for a table with two stools perched on either side of it.

The TV is flanked by two large black bookshelves, filled to the brim with books that Art had obviously taken the time out of his day to organize. He holds out his arm in a gesture of good will, allowing her to explore the place. She briefly considers just sitting on the couch and initiating the conversation immediately, but something catches her eye. She walks up the bookshelf and her eyes gloss over the titles. She stops dead in her tracks at one book.

_The Art of Rebirth._

Mary steps back. She casts a wary glance back at Art. Quickly, she gathers herself and makes for the door.

“Mary! Wait,” he calls after her.

She whirls around. “You’re one of those wackos from the town! You’re trying to get me into your twisted cult.”

“No. I’m trying to inform you.”

Mary slants her eyes at him.

“That ritual you—I mean your husband used. It’s not what you think.”

Her voice broke. “I don’t want to know what it was, then! Just leave me alone! Please…” she backs away from him. “I don’t want to go back where I came from… I don’t want to go.”

She makes for the door and swings it open and rushes down the hall, not even bothering to close Art’s door.

 

 

 

Dawn rises, bright through the curtains. Her eyes, though heavy with sleepiness, are gradually beginning to waken. She turns over to her one side, then the other. She stretches, trying to get her morning bones under way. She swallows, and feels how dry her throat is. Her eyes feel dry too, crusty even. She wills herself to sit up slowly, using her elbows for support, and leans back her head and rolls her shoulders. A nice breeze is blowing through. Mary can tell the day is going to be hot.

She gets up on her feet, wriggles her toes, and makes for Laura’s room, intending to wake her before she uses the bathroom. But Laura’s bed is empty. She turns out and pokes her head in the bathroom. “Sweetie?”

No Laura here either.

She makes for James’ room, and ever so slowly, creaks the door open. Lord knows she doesn’t want to wake him so early. The earlier he wakes, the longer he spends groaning and crying.

Laura is holding James’ hand, her expression calm. James looks to be asleep.

“Laura,” Mary whispers, waving her toward her, “You’re going to wake James. Come out of here.”

But Laura doesn’t move. Not at first. It doesn’t even appear like she heard what Mary just said.

“Laura—”

“He can’t hear you,” she deadpans.

Mary stops waving, straightens. “What?”

Slowly, Laura turns her head, and Mary sees that Laura has the marks of old tear streaks on her cheeks. Her face looks hollower, as if some of her spirit has been drained out of her body. Older.

“He’s dead.”

 

 

 

Art opens his door and Mary is standing there, her arm raised in the fist that was knocking on his door. It drops limply to her side, and for a moment they stand there staring at each other. The border that separates Art from her seems like standing on the edge of space threatening to fall into oblivion. He breaks the silence and comes to subsequent reality with only one word.

“Hello.”

Mary steps in without being asked and Art flattens himself against the door as his brows knit. “Mary?”

Her back to him, she says, “My husband James… he’s dead.”

Art freezes for a second, then closes the door. “I’m—I’m so sorry to hear that. Is there… anything I can do for you?” Though he knows it’s a stupid question. Of course there’s something he can do. Tell her the damn truth. But it hitches in his throat and the weight of the news of her husband’s demise presses on his chest. This is a very serious moment for Mary, one of devastation and utter blankness—so many emotions vying for attention, and grief the most vicious demon of them all.

Her hands come together and she turns her head to reveal her profile. Her eyes have gone dark. “Tell me.”

“It—It wasn’t a ritual to bring back dead loved ones,” he began, cautiously, running this over through his head. The blood thumps in his ears. The knowledge that this is a delicate situation pins him where he is and leaves him with fewer words than he imagined. He only wishes, ruefully and uselessly, that Mary had allowed him to tell her these things before James’ passing.

But would it have even helped?

“It was… it was meant as a ritual enabling the performer to cheat death. By swapping bodies.”

Art lets the bomb drop and stops there, gaging Mary’s reaction. She’s still staring at him the same way she has been. No flinch or outcry or expression of pain. Slowly, she turns to face him and her face hardens. She approaches him and the desperation takes on a new clarity. Her eyes are darting all over his face, as if searching for another, easier answer in his features. “What do you mean? What’re you talking about?”

Art’s eyes are downcast. He steps past her and goes to his bookshelf. He goes back up to her and opens an old tome, flipping it over to her view. She grabs the edges and stares into the text, her eyes squinting. “What am I looking at?” she asks.

“See that there?” He points at the bold heading of a paragraph that reads _Ersatz Memory Shell_. “That’s… what you’ve become.”

“What’s an… an…”

“Ersatz… memory shell. It doesn’t happen very often. In fact there have only been a few select times in history where this ritual has ever been carried out at all. Most weren’t documented, and if they were, they only existed in esoteric texts among the The Order’s clergy—”

“Just tell me what the hell I’m looking at!” she bursts.

Art starts and steps back. “I-I’m sorry. I tried to—What happened is… The reason you feel like Mary is because James’ memories of you, in essence, formed your personality. But that’s all they are. Memories. Sometimes… a person’s memories, if they’re strong enough, can take the place of a soul.”

“Are you telling me…I’m not who I think I am?”

“You’re a body of memories.” Art closes the book. His eyes don’t waver as he says this. “You’re not Mary. Mary is dead. You’re only a puppet playing her part.”

 

 

 

 

Laura colors in the living room.

Mary and Art stand on either side of James’ bed. Neither of them have ever been in a situation like this before. It’s all very new and completely morbid. Mary looks at Art. Art looks at Mary.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he says, and throws the cover over him. They don’t know what to do with the body, much less how to look at each other. Just how many people find themselves in a situation like this? What’s most pressing is how the hell they’re going to give him a proper burial.

“It’ll have to be unmarked,” she says.

“What?”

“The grave.” She runs her fingers over the blankets and feels how warm he is still.

His lips purse like moving worms and his Adam’s apple bobs once, and then stills. His eyes are the stillest thing on his face, yet the most expressive. Tense and indefinite, slate gray and filled with granite. His features, naturally somber like James, are something her heart swells in appreciation for. She smiles, because suddenly it’s all so funny. It’s not okay and that almost makes her laugh. But perhaps she’s not that crazy yet.

“What a joke, isn’t it?” she says, smiling at the body.

Art’s eyebrows press down on his eyes, his jaw sets.

“I guess I’m a woman in this life now.”

“This is no time to be saying silly things like that,” Art replies uselessly. “Listen, I have to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“Are you ever going to tell her?”

“Laura?” Mary’s face is unreadable. “I don’t know,” she says.

Laura coloring stops, and she takes a peek over her shoulder at the bedroom down the hall, wondering what it is they’re talking about. The plans they’re making. The world their words are trying to build and the power over life they’re falsely assuming by doing so. But in the passing of a moment it no longer matters to her, because wherever she goes Mary will be there. And that’s all that really matters.

 

 

 

Laura looks out of the window, drawing a heart into the window pane that streaks with condensation. The trees flank the road and waft in the breezing air smelling of grass, acorns, the fir trees and cold earth. “Where’re we going, Mom?”

“We’re headed to a place called Brahms, sweetie.”

“What if we get lost?” Laura frowns.

“Then we’ll ask for directions.” Mary says.

“Mom, why are we going to Brahms? I thought you wanted to go back to Silent Hill.”

“I did, honey,” she smiles plaintively at the road ahead.

“Are we ever going back?”

“Maybe someday.”

But she knows that the decision to return isn’t hers. People don’t choose Silent Hill.

Silent Hill chooses you.


End file.
